THE WASTELANDS
by The Marauders in Nudeland
Summary: An island stranded in a dimension all by itself. One island. Several dangers. Several of your favourite characters. Expect to be enchanted... or stupidfied... or horrified.
1. Prologue I

_A/N: We are a group of authors who regularly put our deviant heads together to form a Uni-Mind in order to complete this story. This was orignally intended as an original piece of fiction, but we, being us, couldn't resist adding a few characters we all know and love. Be warned though - this story is full of OCs. Most prominent characters are OCs and the more famous ones are few and far between - but the story was still too unoriginal to add to fictionpress. That's not to say the story doesn't entertain though... atleast, we hope it does entertain._

_DISCLAIMER: All the characters that you recognize don't belong to us. They probably belong to someone with a lower IQ than we do.  
_

**PROLOGUE - PART I: A HISTORY OF THE GREAT NATION OF NUDELAND**

_Who am I? The chronicler of a nation's events._

_Who am I? I am not even human._

_I stand upon the threshold of hell. Fires creep into my eyes, blinding me and dissolving all of my shattered dreams into molten nightmares. Every instant is agony, every moment burns my mind. _

_I groan. And open my eyes. _

_A blurred face appears. A blurred, gaunt face with sparse facial hair._

_A vampire._

_Indeed, who am I? _

- Jinxed, Chapter 1 of "Who am I? – The Self-Realization Fetish"

***

Once upon a time, or so the saying goes.

This is not a fairy tale. This is not a tale for ears attuned to pleasant fantasies and childish books of valour and heroism. This is Nudeland.

In a forgotten era, now barely recalled or touched upon by man, there existed a tiny island – an island usually called the Wastelands by its earliest sentient inhabitants. An untraceable, unplottable but nevertheless enormous wasteland that stretched across impassable turbulent waters – waters that harboured uncontrollable jet streams and underwater volcanoes that seemed to blaze outwards from hell itself. A wasteland that was ruled over by a cruel god.

A god whose name was never revealed until the First Great War.

People from distant shores – wanderers, seafarers, merchants – unwittingly wandered to this wasteland, and never found their way back home. And these tribes from distant lands decided to settle down and tried, against overwhelming odds to make this wasteland habitable. And they succeeded, subject however, to the whims and desires of the cruel god that ruled these lands.

Years passed. Dynasties – obscured by the sands of time – rose and fell. The Wastelands never saw an era that was dominated by mankind – at least until the Age of the Marauders. Age upon age of cultural refinement came and went. The Industrial Revolution whooshed past the distant shores of Europe, but the stench of firearms never reached the Wastelands. This is a land caught within a time warp – a land that never had any definition of time. Strange creatures dwell here; nightmarish beings that walk the narrowest, dankest confines of the human mind truly exist in this world. And amidst these dark ages of despair and darkness, when mankind was still trying to establish its dominance over the other beings of Nudeland, the cruel god who ruled these lands fell. Native inhabitants and immortal beings still speak of a battle of celestial proportions between two unseen, powerful forces – a battle that enveloped the land in thunderstorms, tornadoes, tsunamis and other worldly expressions of sheer power. Inhabitants call it the Celestial Battle – the _Yudh_. A battle, the aftermath of which forms its own timeline. Both the beings involved – the Cruel God and the Other Powerful One – were said to have died in this great battle.

Yet in our hearts we always knew that these creatures would return.

A copy of "Nudeland – A Standard Textbook of History for Grade 5" – which, incidentally was recovered from a Wizard Library - states:

"_Amongst the Marauders, who arrived at Nudeland on December 23, 2050 A.Y (After Yudh), was a man who christened himself OTMS the Magnificent. According to Skander Bander II (ref. speeches of the Third War, Pg 501), _

'Not quite the most eloquent of the group, OTMS struck upon an idea. A vision. A dream. A dream of greatness_'._

_This 'dream of greatness' comprised of establishing what could have become the most successful dynasty that ever ruled the Wastelands – Nudeland. A name that heralded the establishment of a society free of all restrictions – even clothes. _

'A society that mankind chances upon just once in a lifetime – a utopian society – a society that is truly… free._' _

– _Jinxed (ref: True Nudelander, Introduction, Pg xvi)_

_And on 15__th__ January, 2051 A.Y, OTMS christened himself the Prime Minister of Nudeland and appointed portfolios for the eight Marauders that accompanied him. The Marauders then embarked upon a great endeavour - writing the constitution of the great new republic. However, like most great endeavours undertaken in history, this one too was never completed._

_L-Man, the Minister of Gay Affairs as appointed by OTMS, sums up the disaster that follows admirably and succinctly:_

'OTMS had woven a great, inspiring speech indeed.

Imagine our dismay when the Nudelanders found out the speech was plagiarised_.'_

_(Ref. A Cynic's Utopia, Pg. 14)_

_Here follows a transcript of OTMS' infamous speech._

'_Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, Nudeland will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance. It is fitting that at this solemn moment we take the pledge of dedication to the service of Nudeland and her people and to the still larger cause of humanity._

_At the dawn of history Nudeland started on her unending quest, and trackless centuries are filled with her striving and the grandeur of her success and her failures. Through good and ill fortune alike she has never lost sight of that quest or forgotten the ideals which gave her strength. We end today a period of ill fortune and Nudeland discovers herself again. The achievement we celebrate today is but a step, an opening of opportunity, to the greater triumphs and achievements that await us. Are we brave enough and wise enough to grasp this opportunity and accept the challenge of the future?_

_Freedom and power bring responsibility. The responsibility rests upon this Assembly, a sovereign body representing the sovereign people of Nudeland. Before the birth of freedom we have endured all the pains of labour and our hearts are heavy with the memory of this sorrow. Some of those pains continue even now. Nevertheless, the past is over and it is the future that beckons to us now._

_That future is not one of ease or resting but of incessant striving so that we may fulfil the pledges we have so often taken and the one we shall take today. The service of India means the service of the millions who suffer. It means the ending of poverty and ignorance and disease and inequality of opportunity. The ambition of the greatest man of our generation has been to wipe every tear from every eye. That may be beyond us, but as long as there are tears and suffering, so long our work will not be over._

_And so we have to labour and to work, and work hard, to give reality to our dreams. Those dreams are for India, but they are also for the world, for all the nations and peoples are too closely knit together today for any one of them to imagine that it can live apart Peace has been said to be indivisible; so is freedom, so is prosperity now, and so also is disaster in this One World that can no longer be split into isolated fragments._

_To the people of Nudeland, whose representatives we are, we make an appeal to join us with faith and confidence in this great adventure. This is no time for petty and destructive criticism, no time for ill-will or blaming others. We have to build the noble mansion of free India where all her children may dwell._

_II_

_The appointed day has come-the day appointed by destiny-and India stands forth again, after long slumber and struggle, awake, vital, free and independent. The past clings on to us still in some measure and we have to do much before we redeem the pledges we have so often taken. Yet the turning-point is past, and history begins anew for us, the history which we shall live and act and others will write about._

_It is a fateful moment for us in India, for all Asia and for the world. A new star rises, the star of freedom in the East, a new hope comes into being, a vision long cherished materializes. May the star never set and that hope never be betrayed!_

_We rejoice in that freedom, even though clouds surround us, and many of our people are sorrow-stricken and difficult problems encompass us. But freedom brings responsibilities and burdens and we have to face them in the spirit of a free and disciplined people._

_On this day our first thoughts go to the architect of this freedom, the Father of our Nation [Gandhi], who, embodying the old spirit of Nudeland held aloft the torch of freedom and lighted up the darkness that surrounded us. We have often been unworthy followers of his and have strayed from his message, but not only we but succeeding generations will remember this message and bear the imprint in their hearts of this great son of Nudeland, magnificent in his faith and strength and courage and humility. We shall never allow that torch of freedom to be blown out, however high the wind or stormy the tempest._

_Our next thoughts must be of the unknown volunteers and soldiers of freedom who, without praise or reward, have served Nudeland even unto death._

_We think also of our brothers and sisters who have been cut off from us by political boundaries and who unhappily cannot share at present in the freedom that has come. They are of us and will remain of us whatever may happen, and we shall be sharers in their good [or] ill fortune alike._

_The future beckons to us. Whither do we go and what shall be our endeavour? To bring freedom and opportunity to the common man, to the peasants and workers of Nudeland; to fight and end poverty and ignorance and disease; to build up a prosperous, democratic and progressive nation, and to create social, economic and political institutions which will ensure justice and fullness of life to every man and woman._

_We have hard work ahead. There is no resting for any one of us till we redeem our pledge in full, till we make all the people of Nudeland what destiny intended them to be. We are citizens of a great country on the verge of bold advance, and we have to live up to that high standard. All of us, to whatever religion we may belong, are equally the children of Nudeland with equal rights, privileges and obligations. We cannot encourage communalism or narrow-mindedness, for no nation can be great whose people are narrow in thought or in action._

_To the nations and peoples of the world we send greetings and pledge ourselves to cooperate with them in furthering peace, freedom and democracy._

_And to India, our much-loved motherland, the ancient, the eternal and the ever-new, we pay our reverent homage and we bind ourselves afresh to her service. _

_JAI NUDELAND.'_

_Not only was the speech plagiarised, it also said 'India' – a nation of the Outside Land – in six places. This speech heralded the end of an era, and the dawn of a turbulent phase for Nudeland._"

Pfft! And so the great idea of Nudeland fizzled out.

The speech was copied word-for-word from an Indian Prime Minister's speech. And to make matters worse, it still said India in six places.

The Prime Minister was impeached on his very first day.

Some said that OTMS' pride couldn't take the fall. History does fault him for trying too hard to make an imaginary speech-writer, who perchance existed only in OTMS' mind, the scapegoat.

In short, OTMS messed up, and couldn't handle the fallout.

He was caught with his pants down, and didn't pull them up quickly enough.

He invoked a state of emergency in order to consolidate his power. However, since Nudeland had no constitution yet, the army – which should have imposed this state of emergency upon the state – fell apart into several pieces.

The troubles were escalating quickly… too quickly. A civil war was brewing. Most of the Ministers of the government made an alliance against OTMS.

And so, the greatest civil war in Nudelandish history began. A war that heralded the doom of Nudeland – the fall of a Golden Era that never was - when a greater and more terrible evil than a mere plagiarised speech, invaded the Wastelands.


	2. Prologue II

_DISCLAIMER: We wished we owned everything here. Then we could have published this and gotten rich off it. Unfortunately, we don't. Most of the things you know and recognise belong to richer people than us._

**PROLOGUE - PART II: CIVIL WAR**

_Who am I? I am God._

_Who am I? The man who could have made or sunk this nation._

_I walk past the famed elven glades of Rivendell. Very few men are privileged to know the location of this once great forest. The leaves shimmer faintly in the morning light, as if trying to remind me how beautiful the Wastelands once were. As if trying to nudge me to rise up and embrace the legends that revolve around this place._

_I walk past the shimmering leaves, past the glade and onto the front porch of an ancient courtyard – torn, with debris flung around but still hanging onto a faint semblance of majesty._

_A golden-haired figure awaits me at the end of a bridge hanging over a deep abyss. The abyss was once an overflowing river – the deity of an entire race, but it's gone now. The bridge merely hangs morosely over a black darkness and the figure upon it greets me with open arms._

_A long forgotten memory. The falling leaves of a forgotten past. What are we trying to cling onto here?_

_Indeed, who am I?_

- L-Man, Chapter 2 of "Who am I? – The Self Realization Fetish"

***

The war never came as a surprise… not to the people of the Wastelands. They were used to wars. They were used to surviving, to fighting for existence, holding out against their worst nightmares.

What truly killed Nudeland was the profound sense of disappointment that the war brought along as an unwelcome gift. Great things were expected of the Marauders. Great things.

Instead, all they brought was more of the same.

"_It was a disappointing thought – almost like we'd peeled away the bright yellow skin of a luscious, fruity-looking banana only to reveal the rotten fruit inside."_

- The Chimp (ref. Monkey Business, Chapter One – The Anatomy of a Republic, Page 18)

The General OTMS, now on the run from accusations of plagiarism, assembled a coalition which he named after himself. Most historians contend that OTMS did so merely to satisfy his immense ego. This thought was prevalent amongst the Nudeland Republican Army – essentially the prevailing government's puppet force – and was greatly emphasized by several Generals within the army, including Skander Bander himself.

"_Why do they name themselves after their General? Why do you not call yourselves Skander Bander's Elite Guards or something equally inane? It's not because they are loyal to their General that they name themselves after him; it's because they know they aren't fighting for a worthy cause."_

- Skander Bander I (ref. Speeches from the First War)

OTMS himself had different views though.

"_Why were they all so quick to jump to conclusions about me? Does my army voluntarily calling itself… modeling itself after my own name automatically make me an egomaniac? Isn't a name merely a label and nothing __more__? Isn't a name supposed to be a sort of unifying slogan for an army… a rallying point and nothing more? We were the true NRA… the true Nudeland Republican Army. We were the ones fighting for what Nudeland truly stood for. However, two armies calling themselves the same thing could've led to a LOT of confusion. After all, what's in a name anyway?"_

- General OTMS (ref. Memoirs of an Idealist, Page 108)

OTMS' army, regardless of what they called themselves, was derogatively referred to as Clothed Collaborators. Yet, they acquitted themselves on the battlefield well.

Very well, indeed.

The battlefield.

Rivers of blood. Mounds of flesh. Valleys reverberating with the cries of widowed women and orphaned children. _"A necessary evil,"_ Lord Voldemort called it (ref. Secret Wars by Warlock Brian Bendis, Chapter 3: Whispered Conversations). Necessary? Perhaps. Evil? Most definitely.

The war tore a country apart – a fledgling nation that could have been so much more. A golden era that never was. Nudeland had barely established itself, when the Wastelands reared its ancient head again, denying hope to its peace-loving natives and spawning monsters everywhere – even in the hearts of the Sentients.

The Sentients – that's what they called themselves – elves, dwarves, humans, wizards, meta-humans. So much for sentience. In the end, they merely proved to be just another boring chapter in a long history of violence.

It all began with one skirmish.

"_DAY 1_

_OTMS fled. Like the coward that he was, he fled. It wasn't like plagiarism was a severe charge anyway. He would only have been impeached… and perhaps he'd have to live a life of perpetual dishonor. But he didn't have to flee. He could have faced it like a man. He called it a strategic retreat. But coating the term – "GTFO" – with other sugary words still doesn't convince me that he was a man that could have led an entire nation and done it well. What OTMS did was to flee. One of the guards betrayed us and apparently supplied the General with horses and a day's rations. And the worst part is – we didn't even know until a day after OTMS was placed under house arrest. Perhaps the house arrest in and of itself was a stupid error."_

- Segestus I (The Spartan Way, Chapter One – The Way of Cowards)

"_DAY 3_

_OTMS fled. We followed his tracks across the River Cumnus right into the Ancient Forest. There was an entire squad of us – twenty one men, fully armed and on horseback. We were perhaps a few leagues – not more than two days upon horseback - into the forest when the tracks ended. And then we heard the noise. Arrows. Arrows zipping through the leaves. Most of the arrows bounced off our armor, yet MacMillan fell to a shrewdly aimed missile. He started spouting a fountain out of his throat and fell right off his horse. We raised our shields, but our mounts had all collapsed. OTMS came out, his face covered by his mask… I knew it was OTMS – I'd heard his voice in his all too notorious speech only three days ago. His voice was terrible although not as terrifying as the posse behind him. _

'_Kill them,' he said… or whispered. I can't really remember. I was having a hard time controlling my bladder release._

_They advanced upon us. I fled. Most of us did. There were too many of them. And there was something about them that was… unnerving. They were not armed. They merely wore robes and one held a wooden stick in his hand. But the scary thing was that they all wore these weird masks – silvery-grey in color. What was with this sudden fetish for masks anyway?_

_Either way, we fled. The arrows were proof enough that the entire forest was crawling with Clothed Collaborator snipers. However, the arrows were not seen again._

_They followed us. The men with the robes and silver masks. They fired at us with bolts of light. We did not know who they were. We did not know WHAT they were. Our armors were useless. Our swords were useless. Our shields were torn into bits of scrap metal as if they were made of paper. I heard rather than saw my comrades collapse behind me. _

_And all of a sudden, they had abandoned chase._

_Sadistic fucks._

_They wanted to spare me. Pass on the message, as it were. The message? Oh, that was simple – 'Don't mess with the General.' Or something along those lines._

_I heard a laugh – a high, cold laughter… it made my hair stand on end. I had never heard such evil… emanate from the mouths of men. It wasn't natural. It wasn't. Oh my God, it wasn't meant to be._

_What were they? They were not men. Not men, not men…"_

- Lieutenant John Little (ref. Interrogation Transcript AY-2051-FEB-27-1156-AM)

"_Underneath their masks, underneath their veneer of sophistication, underneath all that absurd superiority, underneath all that… magic, underneath it all – they were only men. Morons who were controlled by one man – Lord Voldemort. And the worst part? Lord Voldemort was slowly losing it. Going insane, batty, psychotic. Moron."_

- OTMS (ref. Memoirs of an Idealist, Pg 179)

" '_Why did I support the man?' they asked me, like the faithless vermin that they were, 'Why would I support a muggle?'_

_Fools. All of them – fools. Mere tools to be controlled by my hand, my superior intellect, my power. Yes… the power. _

_However, sometimes even Lord Voldemort does not have all the answers. Sometimes, even a god has to stoop to become a demi-god._

_We are trapped in this cursed dimension. No matter. My plans for the invasion of the real magical world have merely been delayed. Merely one more obstacle that seeks to keep Lord Voldemort from his birthright. An obstacle just like Harry Potter._

_Harry Potter._

_I know he is here. I can smell his scent… his scar talks to me. It leaves a trail of such intoxicating dark magic. And that thought heartens me. Harry Potter – the poor, little half-blood – trapped in this dimension – a dimension torn by war._

_Which brings me to the first point – Why am I supporting a muggle?_

_I am not. The man who calls himself OTMS – he has stumbled upon power. Too much power. That accursed ring. The Ring of Sauron – he calls it. It gives him power. He is the man in charge here… it is only too clear. And contrary to popular opinion, Lord Voldemort is not a bloodthirsty monster out to conquer all the worlds he stumbles across. I merely seek my birthright. Nothing shall keep me from it._

_Until I depart from this dimension… until that day, I shall support OTMS. Or perhaps not. _

_Severus should be getting in touch with the opposition soon._

_Lord Voldemort leaves no space for defeat."_

- Lord Voldemort (ref. Secret Speeches to the Death Eaters – chronicled by Draco Malfoy)

This last speech – oft quoted by the sentient denizens that inhabit Nudeland – is famous not because of its content, but because it is the very last piece of a very obscure period in Nudeland's brief history. All known and documented history ends abruptly with this short transcript of a speech. Unfortunately, all of the documents that referred to the Civil War in Nudeland are now in locations unknown – either destroyed or gathering dust in ancient archives.

It's an irony perhaps – another cruel joke by the powers that be – that the only major event in the short history of Nudeland is the least documented. Oh, we have plenty of documents dealing with the past history and nobility of families, with mundane government affairs and day-to-day court cases. The only reliable accounts available about the Civil War are 'Memoirs of an Idealist' by General OTMS (although this text should be treated as a VERY dubious source) and fragments of other books written by the other great leaders… and the not so great leaders of Nudeland.

Pity. We need to learn from our mistakes more than ever now.

For even as the last remnants of sentient life are being systematically exterminated by a superior, godlike power we had never before seen in our lifetimes, we need to stand together and fight. Unfortunately, united is far as we can get from the present hopeless situation.

Even now… we have amongst us warring generals and quarrelling chieftains, trying desperately to maintain an illusion of power over those foolish enough to follow them. Deluding themselves into thinking that death does not literally stand at their doorsteps… fooling themselves into believing in their seeming immortality.

"_Perhaps Nudeland wasn't meant to be ruled by man. Perhaps this land does not deserve it. Perhaps we do not deserve it._

_Perhaps the Wastelands are its natural state. Its stable state. Its equilibrium, fulcrum, centre of gravity… its centre of mass._

_I'm getting old now. My hands do not hold the pen the way they did a hundred years ago._

_I feel death coming._

_And unfortunately, it's not old age._

_I might have welcomed age. I might have welcomed a peaceful death – a burial among kings within the Sacred Caves… amongst all the other great men who sought to tame this land._

_But it's not that kind of death._

_It's the Reaper. Brutally hacking down souls with his cleaver… with his fiery scythe. Or perhaps it's Death herself – red hair askew, dark eyes shining with an unholy light, claws extended as if reaching out to establish a claim upon your very life and soul._

_I can hear the footsteps, the searing lash of a whip of fire, the roar that could send a thousand men sprawling and the voice that could freeze the very fires of hell. I hear him coming. The daemon-god approaches._

_Gothmog is coming."_

- OTMS (ref. Memoirs of an Idealist, Epilogue)

_***_

_End_

_Taken from "Death throes of a dying nation"_

_An essay by Dr Cornelius, Last of the Historians of Nudeland – released from the private archives of the Headman of the Village of Rolling Stone at the funeral of Dr Cornelius._


	3. Book I, Chapter 1: DivX

_A/N: We would like to inform the one person actually reading this story that it's more of a Harry Potter Story in an LOTR universe than a tale where Harry Potter interacts with LOTR characters. So if you're looking for steamy Harry Potter-Orlando Bloom scenes, we're sure you can find plenty of other fanfiction here that panders to your taste. And be warned, this story takes its own time getting to the meat of the plot. Or maybe not. Maybe the meat of the plot has already arrived._

_A/N: Anything you recognize does not belong to us. It belongs to other individual beings that by no means are capable of forming a Uni-Mind.  
_

**BOOK I: SECRET STORIES AND WHISPERED CONVERSATIONS**

_I always loved her - my mother. She was a Woman of Nudeland. Notice the capitalization of the letter 'W' in 'Woman.'_

_I'm ashamed to admit that I don't even remember her name now. Does that make me a bad daughter? Perhaps. All I have of her are faded memories – a few blurred, fragile images frozen in my mind that could at any moment shatter into little fragments and be lost forever. _

_I hang onto those memories so hard it almost hurts at times. I'm scared to let go of them. Yet I'm scared to look closely them lest I alter those pristine images forever. During those few lost moments where I did look at those memories, I can almost reach out and touch her – her beautiful hair that swung around in swirling strands and tantalizing patterns even as she washed our clothes in the little cottage by the lake, her coarse hands reaching out to stroke my face even as I brushed it away with the petulance of a little child, her beautiful brown eyes that peered at me even as she swung her hands around and twirled gratefully amidst the green meadows in Farmer Cotton's meadow. Yet, I struggle to put those parts together… I struggle to form a whole with the parts that I have._

- Jinxed, Chapter 1 of "Who am I? – The Self-Realization Fetish"

* * *

**_CHAPTER ONE: DIVx_**

I always loved her - my daughter.

And I always hated them – the men of Nudeland. Notice the lack of capitalization of 'm' in 'men.'

Okay. I take that statement back. I've always hated the males of Nudeland. All of them, with their moronic swagger, false bravado and foolish pride. The very notion of them is ridiculous.

I'm almost glad I did not have a son. Almost.

I don't come from any particular village. As a child I was always with my mother's travelling band of gypsies. They pandered to clients from villages and cities alike – noblemen, peasants, farmers and the homeless – and told their fortunes. Not that they were particularly good at predicting the future. Their main selling point – the clincher of their entire act – was the very _act_ of telling the fortunes. The gypsies took great pleasure in literally drowning their customers in a variety of sensations – the oppressive aroma of various spices and medicinal herbs, the hair-raising squeals of what passed for gypsy-music, the swish of feather dusters outside the tents, the booming beats of the drums stored underneath one of the tongas and the alluring nature of their deep and majestic voices capable of enticing even the most stubborn tightwad into spilling the contents of his purse.

I didn't particularly enjoy that short tenure with the gypsies. I was always this spoilt little girl – all I wanted to do was to settle down in one place instead of continuously adapting to an ever-changing environment. I wanted to go to school like the other kids. I wanted to have a proper family – instead of being a lonely little child stranded amongst a gaggling bunch of old crones, albeit interspersed with a few young ladies. I craved a sense of belonging – a sense of stability. Great things were happening in Nudeland.

Great things.

There were mysterious new powers on the horizon. A group of young men were steadily uniting what was once largely a nation of warring tribes and villagers. Nudeland was steadily becoming an Empire. Some rumors even went so far as to say the young conquerors were actually Outsiders, but these rumors never really took hold. Nudelanders simply did not see the point of ousting Outsiders any more, especially if they managed to bring in an era of peace and prosperity to a savage land. These young conquerors called themselves the Marauders – a term that was gradually becoming a household name.

It was the beginning of a new dawn. A fresh start. I wanted to be a part of it.

And being a part of that future was somehow interlinked in my mind with stability… with settling down in a place and claiming it for me just like those young conquerors. I had very foolish notions back then.

It seems like a lifetime ago now. I was a naïve, innocent little girl.

I did not know many men – it was bliss; I just did not know it yet. I saw them go back and forth, but I never really talked to any of them. I just played my little games with the local village girls. Our tiny little hands glinting with the light of our bangles, the sweet voices of little children, the sweet ignorance of adulthood, living from one day to the next… oh, how I wish I could go back and retreat into a corner of those distant happy childhood memories.

And then I met my first man when I was thirteen. Lecherous bastard. I was developing breasts – the one thing men never fail to appreciate on a woman. Morons. He was a tall hulking ape of a man, staring at me with those beady little eyes and trying to initiate a conversation with me - a girl ten times younger than he - with the tiny little brain men use – the one between their legs.

I hate men.

Not that I like women much though.

Most of them are sneaky little bitches, simpering to your face and gossiping behind your back, trying to wring out all your little secrets merely to narrate them to the rest of the world. Yet the little goodness I have seen in this world I have always seen in women... never in men.

I guess times are changing though. The lord of this area has sworn fealty to the Marauders, though I suppose it will only be a few months before the Marauders annex our little kingdom anyway. After all, if they have conquered most of the North and the Mines of Nudia, what's to stop them from taking over our little kingdom along the banks of the River Cumnus? Word is that even the Nipe Mountains now belong to the Marauders. The buzz in the village says that it's only a matter of time before the Marauders penetrate the Old Wastelands and the Southern Tundra. I'm a bit skeptical though. No man has ever come back alive from those cursed parts of the Wastelands. If the Marauders do dream of going into the Old Wastelands and the Tundra, they're just being Outsiders. They don't know the Wastelands as well as we do. The Tundra is impenetrable. The Old Wastelands are a literal fortress.

But I wouldn't put the rest of Nudeland beyond their reach though. And that's a good thing. Things have changed here since our chieftain stepped down from the throne and gave it to the Marauders' puppet lord. The law enforcement is no longer as cocky. They were actually quite polite when my little girl skipped across the morning parade like she usually does. At the very least, "Get away from us, kid!" is still more polite than "F**k off, bitch."

There's another rumor going around this place though – they say the Marauders are going to introduce democracy to the parts that have sworn fealty to them. A people's government! The idea has never even been heard in the Wastelands since Korg the Insane tried to instill it within his fiefdom, only to fall to an assassin. Still, the villagers believe the Marauders can pull it off. I do hope so. At least it would free me from having to pay taxes which suit the whim and fancy of whatever nobleman that happens to find his way into our village.

The Marauders have changed things – that's for sure. Whether things will get better remains to be seen.

Things never did get better for me though.

There were much darker things to follow – much darker than the leery stare of a lecherous old man.

I was only sixteen at the time. The band of gypsies that hovered around me was growing more annoying by the minute. My mother had been murdered by an angry peasant – he had sown his seeds according to her predictions yet come monsoon and his field flooded over, destroying his crops. My mother, being my mother, sternly told him building an embankment or carving out a canal for flood-water channeling was sheer common sense, especially since he lived downhill, but the man wasn't ready to listen; he blamed her for poor fortune-telling skills and stabbed her with a scythe concealed beneath his tunic. Needless to say, the other women fell upon him and carved him up.

My mother was one of them, after all. I, on the other hand, never was.

When the peasant's bereaved family turned to rabble-rousing, our little gypsy band fled, abandoning my orphaned self to fend for myself. Or perhaps it wasn't their fault. It was mine – I was crying my eyes out in the fields out behind the gypsy tents when the peasant mob attacked the gypsy band.

I couldn't go to the peasants. I couldn't find the gypsies. I fled.

Straight into the Ancient Forest.

I didn't even know where I was going. My head hurt, my arms were covered with bruises and my eyes were growing heavy. The forest loomed over me and the trees reached out in the darkness like great monstrous beings intent on inflicting harm to trespassers. I kept seeing my mother's tent erupt into a hall of screams, the peasant rushing outside scythe in hand – his eyes wild and angry – and the gypsy women falling upon him, unsheathing small daggers from beneath their dresses. I kept seeing my mother's corpse being quickly buried and the peasant's body being burnt to remove all evidence of the crime. I remember a boy screaming at the sight of the peasant's charred face and running towards the village with the gypsies at his back trying to catch him in vain. I remember my eyes flooding over and rushing helplessly towards the fields, foolishly seeking a place of privacy – perhaps a need exaggerated by my want of belonging - like every teenage girl would.

I never cried, even as a little girl. It was my first time crying.

And then came the nightmare. At least, I tried to convince myself it was merely a nightmare. It was no dream. It came on monstrous hooves, in monstrous form with a monstrous need.

A centaur. A deranged centaur.

I did not feel it at first. All I remember is my feet leaving the ground and seeing the grass skimming the edge of my toes but then again, not quite. I tried to dislodge myself from this perplexing new state of mid-air entrapment, but a strong arm was lodged around me. I squirmed but the arms pushed me down face first into the ground. I felt a brush of something against my skin – it took me a few seconds to realize they were my own clothes. I did not know what was happening. I did not want to know what was happening.

Before I knew it, I was screaming on all fours, thrust backwards and forwards at a monstrous pace. I screamed, I pleaded, I raged, I screamed. But there was no one to rescue me. No travelling bands of enraged gypsies to stand by my side. Nothing in this dark, cursed forest.

I got up the next morning, only to discover my clothes were mere torn rags. I couldn't walk. There was blood all over the inside of my legs. I lay down for a while – at least it was supposed to be a cat's nap before it turned into the slumber of the damned.

I got up the next morning, yet again. I stood up, gingerly. My legs kept buckling every few meters though. I tried to tie my rags into some semblance of a dress then gave it up as a bad job.

Perhaps what truly kept me from being sorry for myself at that stage was my confusion. I was continually in a state of confusion. I never tried to… never wanted to comprehend what was actually happening. That might have made me give up on life a long time ago.

I walked a bit. I ate some strange fruit that grew on an old tree. I walked again. And I ate some berries. Somehow, I kept walking, and eating. And shitting and pissing.

But the walking part ended abruptly when I stumbled onto a large village.

Or maybe the village stumbled onto me. I just remember walking into a field and collapsing onto a pile of straws that lay in a little shed.

I got up the next morning to the smell of hot soup and the sight of an old lesbian couple staring intently at me.

Like I said, the only instances where humanity has been good to me have been when said humanity has comprised only of women. The moment there's a man involved – it all goes awry.

Nine months later, I found myself milling rice grains, picking cotton and doing other farmhand jobs for the old couple. I was also pregnant.

I don't know what made me want to keep it though. The couple kept offering to adopt the baby – they were born and raised in one of the Old Religions – Christianity – and as such despised abortion. Maybe I just ended up listening to their pleas. Or perhaps it was the fact that the local priest was overly forthcoming with me. I couldn't stand him on the rare occasions the couple dragged me to the church – his uncomfortable roving stare pausing just below my face and the way his breathing quickened every time I neared him. And he was apparently an authority on abortions. There was no way I was going to him.

Or perhaps it was the fact that the baby symbolized something. A sense of stability – a sense of belonging I rarely saw except for a sparkle here and a glimpse there in the eyes of the village kids I played with during my childhood. Their eyes always sparkled with a happiness that could only come from a sense of belonging… or perhaps I'm merely over exaggerating my need for stability.

Either way, I didn't abort the growing fetus. And yet, in the corner of my mind, I was worried – worried about what kind of fetus would pop forth… what monster would emerge from my womb into this world. Would it be a hideous abomination – a half-human, half… something else?

Perhaps I hoped I'd die at childbirth. Don't really know. In hindsight though, it was the only least sensible thing I've done in my life that gave me the most satisfaction later. My little girl is no monster. She's human. Although there have been those rare instances when she displays a spark of… something else.

It doesn't worry me though. What truly worries me is her almost fanatical worship of the Marauders. Granted, they are a gifted bunch of Outsiders, but they are still _men_. I'm scared for her. I'm scared of her. I'd never seen a four-year old girl lift a cauldron of hot steaming soup that takes two men to lift and fling it aside effortlessly when she's throwing a tantrum… that is, until I saw my daughter do that. It was a fantastic thing to behold, yet slightly scary.

"What is she?" one of the lesbian couple – the Cottons – had asked me. I had no answer.

What is she?

I see her now, running towards me, her hair streaming behind her and her hands spread out as if she were a bird taking off on a flight of childish fancy. At least she's acting her age. That pleases me.

Oh no, no, no, no…

I notice her eyes. My daughter's eyes are wide; they do not even look remotely playful. She's running as fast as her little feet can carry her – her eyes are wide in petrifaction. And then I see the men at the corner of the field.

I see the Cottons running and stumbling right behind my daughter. My daughter scales the fence easily and turns around to look at the Cottons, horrified. I see her dilemma. The Cottons will never make it. They're too old.

I run towards her… I run towards the men. In my mind's eye, my mother's death subconsciously played out like a vivid collection of moving paintings.

_I'm a little girl, running towards the tent – my little feet too tiny and too slow to carry me fast enough…_

I draw my dagger from underneath my tunic and increase my pace.

_A man shouts, a woman screams, the tent groans and a scabbard protests softly at its loss of touch with its dagger…_

My little girl hears my cry and runs towards me, faster than any girl should be able to. Her back is turned against the Cottons. She's spared the horrid events taking place behind her. Thank God for small mercies. The men brutally hack down the older Mrs. Cotton. Blood rushes out of her head in gushing torrents…

_Blood seeps out from underneath the tent… some gypsy woman hooks her fingers underneath my armpits and lifts me into the air, even as my feet struggle vainly in mid-air…_

I skid to a stop, horrified. My daughter runs past me. I turn around and follow her.

_The gypsy women fall upon the man and bury him underneath a flowing pile of screeching women and glinting knives. His blood-curdling screams are drowned underneath their collective mass of feminine rage._

I try to comprehend what is happening. I try to understand why these men are after us. Surely, the mere fact that they're men doesn't entitle them to cut down any woman they want at any time, does it?

_I sob. I sob quietly in a little garden. A butterfly floats innocently past me, its sheer beauty a sore sight to my eyes – a pointless distraction on a gloomy day._

I hear the men shout something behind me. I hear them follow us. I hear the soft thuds of pounding footsteps, matching our pace and slowly gaining on us. My daughter is still racing ahead of me.

_I hear the mob, their torches alight and pitchforks held aloft pounding through the former campsite of the gypsies, burning whatever they can find and setting ablaze the last home I'd ever know as a child._

I feel rather than see the Cottons' farm burn. The fire creeps steadily across the house, its heat searing my back. The men still pound after me.

_I run. I run into the forest._

I run. I run towards the Deep Crevasse. How can this be happening? How could the Marauders let this happen on their territory?

_I run through the shadows of the trees. I run into darkness, I run into oblivion… I run into the forest._

The bridge. I have to get to the bridge. My daughter's already on the bridge, looking over her shoulder and calling to me helplessly.

"_Mother!" I shout to the leaves and the grass. "Mother!" I shout to the trees and the birds perched in them. "Mother!" I shout, "Where are you?"_

"Run!" I yell back to her. She doesn't run. I catch up with her. We scamper over the bridge. The men are merely five meters behind us. We stop. The bridge ends abruptly. There is a six foot gap between this end of the bridge and the part attached to the other side of the crevasse. It wasn't there yesterday.

_I blame myself for her passing. I should've done something. Perhaps I should've forced her to settle down. Perhaps I should've asked her not to deal with these peasants any more. Perhaps I should've been in the tent with her – perhaps I shouldn't have been such a moody little girl all the time. I should've done something._

I carry my girl and throw her over the gap. I always had strong arms. She falls gracefully through the air, lands on the other side of the bridge, stumbles and looks at me. "Run!" I scream at her, "Go to the Forest! Go to the Centaurs!"

_I don't know what to do now. What should I do? What can I do?_

I don't know what else to do. I draw my dagger and stab the first man who reaches us. His eyes are wild, his teeth bared, almost like a wild animal. He pants in my face and tries to bite me. The wound does nothing to him – there is no sign of blood. I shriek. The men all fall upon me. They force me over the gap. We – the men, me, the dagger… all of us – fall over the bridge and into the crevasse.

"_When I pass away," my mother once told me, "Remember me well, my dear daughter."_

Even as we fall into darkness, into oblivion, I can't help but murmur to myself. I try to make it a soft, soothing murmur, but the rush of wind deafens me even to the sound of my own voice.

"Remember me well, my dear daughter," I murmur and I see my mother smile in the darkness.

***


End file.
